I drop the dark slip of night and step into morning one leg at a time. This routine of vestments calms the stutter of leftover ghosts, smooths the caul covering my face. Clothed this way, no one knows I am crawling with sorrow’s calligraphy, its ink trailing on my skin, your name in the small…
[Open in a theater. The show is about to begin.] Dimmed lights and red velvet herald the start when you ask me a question. What are we doing here? you say, and it startles me, but the play is now in progress, the curtains up, so I make some sort of comment to hush you…
* Page 37: This accident was really not an accident. I swung the coffee can with intent at Susan’s forehead, creating the crescent scar in her eyebrow that was the result of childish play, the sweet camaraderie of siblings. The accident story was for our father, who insisted we did not have “the goddamned luxury” of emergency room visits. (See…